


A Christmas Child

by BashfulBunny (Aequoreavictoria)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Eve, Complete, Domestic Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Five Days - Five Chapters, Fluff and Humor, Heartwarming, Incredulous Greg, John likes unusual baby names, M/M, Rain, Sherlock discovers his paternal nature, Sweetness, Tea, Toast, mild suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-09 22:53:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8916280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aequoreavictoria/pseuds/BashfulBunny
Summary: John and Sherlock, now married to each other, find an endearing, neglected orphan while they are out on a case on Christmas Eve. Parentlock fluff.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reworked-for-Christmas version of the first fanfic I ever wrote. It appears on another fanfic site with the title of 'Benjamin Watson Hudson Holmes'.

"Christ, Sherlock, it's a child!"

John couldn't keep the shock out of his voice as he stilled and stared into the corner of the dingy room − the locked door of which Sherlock had just put his shoulder through. When something had first caught his attention he had assumed that it was an animal, a stray dog or cat, sheltering in a deserted building on a cold winter day. And it was cold for London, not at all nice weather for Christmas Eve.

"A what?" Sherlock asked.

John deliberately lowered his voice, "There's a child in the corner of the room, Sherlock."

He took a step toward the small cowering figure, wanting instinctively to comfort and protect. But the child was terrified, covering its head with its arms, trying to make itself a small as possible. John stopped, knowing any movement on either of their parts would only terrify it further. He couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl, it was too young, or too small, he wasn't sure which, and very dirty.

Sherlock, who had been scanning the room for possible exits from the building they were trapped in, stopped and turned to look. He stared into the corner with an intent expression on his face, the one that indicated he was thinking rapidly. When he finally spoke it was to say abruptly, "John, do something." He then resumed his appraisal of the room, his coat whirling in dark circles around his long legs.

John interpreted, correctly, Sherlock’s request to mean that he should manage the child while Sherlock continued to look for an escape route for them. Unfazed by Sherlock’s blunt manner, he nodded in agreement and took a tentative step toward the corner of the dim room. He crouched on his haunches to say in a coaxing tone, "Hi there. Don't be scared, we want to help you… you need help right?"

Silence. If possible the form shrank even more.

"You know what?" he tried again, "I'm a doctor and you probably know that doctors help people, right? If you look at me you'll see."

There was a small sound from the child which John chose to take as an indication of progress. He persisted, "I'm not coming any closer, so you'll have to look up if you want to see me.”

He spoke in a gentle tone, allowing none of the anxiety he felt to appear in his voice. He knew they didn't have much time before the gang members he and Sherlock had startled away from the warehouse might return with reinforcements. It could be at any moment.

The child's head lifted slightly and John realized that he or she had been watching them all along from under one thin arm, wanting not to be surprised by an attack should it come. He felt his heart twist painfully.

The child was a boy. About four years of age he judged.

"Hi," John repeated, "I'm Dr. Watson." He thought it best to use an authority figure approach to build trust with the child. "What is your name?"

The boy didn't look away, he watched John carefully, his eyes large in his small face.

"Chicken-shit," he said finally, in a small, obedient voice.

John winced and suppressed the sudden fierce rage that flooded his chest from the knowledge that anyone would refer to a child in such a manner.

He said, "But that isn't your real name, right?"

The boy stayed silent.

"Well, boys aren't chickens, so may I call you something else? A real name? Like December maybe." It was the first name he could think of; Mike and his partner had just named their newly adopted baby girl September. And it was Christmas Eve after all so it seemed appropriate. He certainly was not about to call the child anything derogatory.

The name seemed to intrigue the boy for he nodded slowly.

John smiled. "Okay, December, I'd like to help you leave this place, would you let me do that?"

To John's concern, the boy shrank back into the corner once more and whispered anxiously, "You won't tell Joe will you?"

"No, I won't," John promised firmly. He added silently, but if Joe is your caregiver, I will be telling him a great many other things while he contemplates the barrel of my service pistol between his eyes!

At that moment Sherlock re-entered to the room. "Two men dead in the north corridor. Shot," he stated flatly.

John, his eyes on December, warned quietly, "Sherlock."

Sherlock had entered quietly enough, remembering that noise might scare the child, but too quickly. He heeded John’s caution at once, stopping where he stood.

It was then to their surprise that the child said in a clearer voice than John had heard so far, "He's not _Therlock_ , he's Batman!"

For a moment there was only a startled silence from both men until… of course, thought John, the overcoat!

John glanced at Sherlock who was wearing a look of such confusion on his face that it would have been amusing under any other circumstance.

Seizing the moment with sudden inspiration, John said, "Yes, December, I just call him Sherlock sometimes, you're right, we should call him Batman. And he's here to help you."

With this reassurance, the boy scrambled to his feet and made straight for Sherlock, who was still standing perplexed, in the centre of the room. John made a silent plea to Sherlock to understand and play along, but he had no such luck. Unfortunately, Sherlock being Sherlock, he was deaf to silent pleas of any sort and remained motionless.

The boy slowed as he drew near the unresponsive Sherlock, not as certain of himself as he had been a moment earlier. He stopped, and suddenly, before John could say anything, his small face crumpled and he sobbed, "They were right! Batman doesn't like 'chickens' and he doesn't like me!"

Dear God, thought John as silent tears began to slide down the child's face.

"No, no that's not it at all, he does like you…" John said hastily, "He's just planning what to do next to save us, he's thinking."

There was a tense silence for several long seconds more before Sherlock seemed finally to catch on to John’s plan. When he did, he lowered himself cautiously into a crouch in front of the boy, his coat draping both sides of his tall frame − just like the bat-cape noted John absently.

The boy stopped crying and gazed in wonder at the tall figure stooping toward him. Sherlock grasped him awkwardly, not at all sure of himself, but December settled against him easily, reaching up with his own thin arms to hold Sherlock's neck. Settled, he then looked at John and said, "Okay, Doctor Watson, I'm ready now."

John glanced quickly at Sherlock's face, wondering suddenly how he was going to cope with an unknown, filthy child clinging to his neatly pressed blue silk shirt − the bat-shirt, mused that part of John's brain which seemed to be taking on a will of its own. Strangers, dirt and small children − as far as anyone knew, Sherlock disliked all three in equal measure.

However, Sherlock was returning his concerned look over the child's head with an expression as if to say, What!? Really John, sometimes I think you don't know me at all!

Aloud, he announced "Hurry John! There's a door at the end of the hall that looks as though it leads to the river." With that he whirled and strode out the doorway and down the hall with his small burden clinging to his neck. A bemused John followed, thinking to himself that wonders never cease.


	2. Chapter 2

The door at the end of the hall, unseen at first glance as it was hidden by demolition rubble, did indeed open onto a path by the river. There was no sign of the gang members who had been in the warehouse earlier, stock-taking a large shipment of weapons bound for God-knows-where when Sherlock and John had startled them. However, judging by the rapid pace that Sherlock set, John guessed that he felt they were still in some danger and he hastened to keep up.

They trod in silence, focusing on the sloping path under their feet. The December 24th afternoon darkened quickly. There were some stars overhead, visible between banks of heavy clouds, but not enough to provide useful light. It was difficult going.

A longish time had passed when John heard the boy announce conversationally to Sherlock, "My name is December."

There was a silence before John heard Sherlock respond with, "Ah, December. The tenth and last month in the Roman calendar. An excellent name."

He added nothing further though and after a short silence December questioned, "Are you thinking of what to do next to save us?"

There was another pause until John heard, "Quite right, December, a very sound assumption." 

“Okay then, I won’t say anything else.” 

Despite their dangerous situation, John, listening to this conversation, found it impossible to hold back a grin.

Downriver the tow path narrowed and their progress became increasingly slowed by treacherous patches of slippery algae underfoot. There had been no exit paths leading upland by which they could make their way back to the city so they were forced to continue, but when for the second time Sherlock lost his footing and slipped, John said firmly, "Sherlock we need to find somewhere to stop, it's too dangerous to go on in the dark."

Sherlock didn’t break his pace. He said, “I agree John, but I’d like to put a bit more distance between us and the warehouse…”

John ventured tentatively, "Then Sherlock, my boots have better grip than your shoes, perhaps I should carry December…" 

At his suggestion, unexpectedly, Sherlock slowed up so sharply that John almost ran into him. Without turning he said, "No, John, I'm fine. Also, December is asleep and if he wakes up he might make a noise that will alert someone to our presence." With that he continued down the path, although at a much slower pace.

It was hard to dispute the logic of this statement, so John, although somewhat mystified, followed, this time keeping at a cautious distance behind Sherlock.

Before long they came upon what looked, in the feeble light available, to be a maintenance shack, set back from the river and obviously deserted. At the door, although it seemed to be with some reluctance, Sherlock did pass the sleeping child to John so he could pick the lock and open the door − in almost complete darkness, John noted with admiration.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in the dark, resting their backs against an inside wall of the empty shed. They had made a slow circuit of the interior using Sherlock's mobile for light for they had decided it was too risky to use a torch. The back of the shed had been chosen as a resting spot because it was slightly less damp than everywhere else. John had produced a bar of chocolate and offered it to December who had gulped it down in seconds. Too hungry thought John, anger welling up in his chest once more. There was nothing for the child to drink which concerned him but he couldn't do anything about it for the moment. Sherlock had shed his coat and they had wrapped December in it and placed him between them. 

"No signal," Sherlock said in answer to John's enquiry about calling for assistance. John himself seemed to have lost his phone sometime during their escape. Bloody hell! he had thought distractedly upon discovering this. It looked like they were in for an uncomfortable night.

"Dr. Watson?" queried a small voice from the darkness between them.

"Yes?" he responded, flexing his sore shoulder and wondering absently if he was getting too old for this sort of activity. A whiskey and a good book before the fire would have been a pleasant way to spend Christmas Eve...

"Is Batman your friend?"

Alert at once, John replied, "Yes, he is, I'm very lucky, he is my husband and my best friend."

There was a thoughtful silence from December following this remark, before he said sadly, "I'm not lucky, I don't have any friends." 

John answered immediately, "Well, I'll be your friend then, would you like that?"

"Yes!" was the quick response.

After another pause came the next hopeful question, "Does that mean that Batman could be my friend too?"

Before John could think of how to answer this question he was surprised to hear Sherlock's deep voice resonating out of the darkness beside them, "Yes, December, quite right. Very sound logic."

John smiled for the second time that evening.


	3. Chapter 3

John must have drifted into an exhausted sleep at some point during the long night because his next awareness was of morning and something amiss… December! The boy, where was he!? And Sherlock? 

Instantly awake he looked around to find that Sherlock was just across the room. He appeared to be pacing although not with his usual frenetic energy. He held his coat bundled in his arms containing, John could only assume, December.

"He had a nightmare and started crying," said Sherlock gruffly, as if he felt he had to explain himself. "I didn't want him to wake you."

Unexpectedly he smiled at John. It was one of his heart stoppingly dazzling smiles; blindingly bright even in the weak, grey light of a foggy river dawn. 

The smile was accompanied by a proud, "He's like me John. He prefers motion to stillness. You see? He's sleeping easily now."

John, wincing as he struggled to his feet, smiled back at him. Far away across the river, the pealing of church bells began to sound. 

He grinned despite his stiffness and sore shoulder. "Two peas in a pod are you? Well, a happy Christmas to us."

They took turns holding December and walking the floor of the small shed until it was light enough to start out on the path once more.

They had been walking for a half hour or so, the damp cold chilling them to their bones, when John asked, "Sherlock, are you sure you don't want me to carry December?" He added, "You know it isn't good for your back to carry a solid weight for too long."

"John, stop fussing about my health like someone's maiden aunt. There is nothing wrong with my back," responded Sherlock, but the rebuke was uttered in a mild tone.

So as not to disturb December, thought John and grinned inwardly. His question had been a small test of course; it was becoming clear to him that something momentous had happened to Sherlock's heart when little December had laid his trusting head on his shoulder Christmas Eve. 

Before their marriage he and Sherlock had discussed having children, after-all John adored children and would have been happy to raise at least a half-dozen of them. But his beloved wasn't as confident. Sherlock, who John knew to be a deeply nurturing man, despite all protestations to the contrary, was as insecure and unsure of himself with children as he was with people in general and had declared that he was certain he'd make a terrible father. However, his expression had been sad when he said it and John, whose instincts where Sherlock was concerned never failed him, had sensed an underlying longing. 

Looking at Sherlock now, cold and dishevelled but clutching the child possessively in his precious overcoat, John recognized paternal love at work even if Sherlock himself did not. It might be rare, but when Sherlock loved, it was sudden, powerful and to the death, as John knew only too well. 

But what could come of it? The situation was complicated; it wasn't as though they could just keep a child who was presumably someone else's as though he was a lost kitten or puppy…

When at last they emerged from the tow path it was onto a shabby street lined with blocks of flats and the occasional small shop. A fine drizzle had begun, apparently determined to outdo the fog with its penetrating chill. To John’s immense relief, there were signs of life on the street, one of which was a garishly flashing sign, not far away, proclaiming the café over which it hung to be open. 

By this time Sherlock was showing definite signs of flagging so John took charge of their small party and led them to the entrance of the café. Its door was lit cheerfully with coloured Christmas lights and adorned with a large plastic holly wreath. Inside John selected the nearest banquette, one of several in the small place draped generously with silver garlands and hung with shiny red bells. He assisted Sherlock to unwrap December whose bright eyes could be seen from inside the coat − an indication that he had not been asleep for at least some time. 

Bright indeed thought John, momentarily taken aback by the startlingly clear blue of the child's eyes. Remarkable that there were actually two humans on the planet with eyes that shade of blue... The boy's hair colour was impossible to judge, it lay on his head in such dirty mats that John looked at Sherlock with alarm.

Sherlock returned his look and was still for a moment before looking away and enquiring cheerfully, "Breakfast, December?"

December nodded and beamed. A smile as bright as his eyes thought John, even through the layers of dirt. 

December sat with Sherlock in the booth while John ordered toast, milk and tea at the counter; the quickest items on the menu. The food arrived, served by the café owner who was brimming with barely restrained curiosity about his unlikely Christmas day customers, only to be quelled by a withering glance from Sherlock. December fell upon breakfast with enthusiasm, stuffing chunks of toast into his small mouth and gulping milk as fast as he could, spilling a great deal of it onto Sherlock beside him. 

John, in the midst of opening his mouth to say something about the mess December was making with his food, caught Sherlock's eye and shut it again. Of course, he's right, John thought, table manners are the least of the child's worries right now. He silently thanked Sherlock, who acknowledged it with one of his disarming half-smiles. 

Savouring the warmth of the café, John took a much needed mouthful of hot tea and leaned back against the banquette to observe Sherlock, unobtrusively he hoped, from behind the rim of his mug. Sherlock’s attention was taken up with tearing toast into small bits so December wouldn't choke as he shoveled them into his mouth. 

Sherlock's hair looked much as usual John noted with amusement. His suit however was utterly ruined and quite unrecognizable from the day before. The shirt was too, John saw with a pang of concern. Sherlock always liked to maintain a neat appearance…

Sherlock, fully aware of John's scrutiny of course, looked up and caught him off guard with one of his, for-John-only, highly flirtatious, the-name-is-Sherlock-Holmes winks.

John, his usual defenses against such deliberate attempts by Sherlock to seductively charm him in public weakened, was overcome by a wave of helpless admiration. Un-bloody believable, he thought, this extraordinary man will never cease to amaze me.


	4. Chapter 4

"We should call Lestrade now," said John.

His suggestion came when it appeared that December could accommodate no more toast or milk.

Sherlock, once more not looking at John said, "There's no rush is there?"

John hesitated and said slowly, "I'll do it".

He got up and made his way to the counter to ask for the café’s phone; Sherlock had said his mobile battery was now dead and John's own phone was still missing. He looked back at Sherlock whose rumpled dark head was bent easily toward the child, conversing with him about something, but whose broad shoulders were tense.

It wasn't long before Lestrade, for once without his usual entourage of officers and squad cars, pulled up in an unmarked vehicle not far from the café’s entrance. John paid the bill while Sherlock wrapped December in his coat once more. They waited under the awning while Lestrade, accompanied by a harried looking woman who John guessed to be a social worker, approached them. John exchanged greetings with Greg and shook hands with his colleague.

Aware that Sherlock, beside him hadn’t moved or spoken, John turned to look at him and froze in surprise. Sherlock, clutching the boy in his coat, was not looking at Lestrade or the social worker but rather staring wildly at John in mute distress; he had an expression of confused panic on his face and his mouth was starting to turn downward and tremble.

John recognized the expression; he had seen it before on very rare occasions. It appeared when Sherlock was overwhelmed with emotion and didn’t know how to cope. John had last seen the look… his own expression softened as he glanced down involuntarily to the wedding ring which Sherlock had placed on his left hand not so long ago.

But why was Sherlock overcome now? The truth of the situation dawned on John quickly. Sherlock, having realized that he wanted to keep the boy hadn't anticipated having to give him up so soon. He had not in the least been expecting someone from Child Welfare to appear and take him away.

John mentally kicked himself. He should have thought to prepare Sherlock in advance to expect Lestrade to bring someone from the Child Protection Authority with him; it was standard procedure in such circumstances. If only he had thought to tell Sherlock this, there would have been time for them to talk about it…

There was no time to regret that now; Sherlock needed support and so John made a decision. Surprising everyone including himself he stepped between Sherlock and Lestrade and his companion. Drawing himself up with as much dignity as he could muster for having spent the previous night on the floor of a damp shed, he announced in what he hoped was a learned medical manner, "Thank you for coming. I have a suggestion to make. The child is traumatized from treatment that he received prior to our rescuing him, as well as the frightening escape from the warehouse.”

Here John gestured to Sherlock and the child. Unfortunately at that moment December was snuggling contentedly against Sherlock’s chest appearing not in the least traumatized. Nevertheless, John continued gamely.

"Therefore," he said, "it's my professional opinion that we should discuss his care going forward in private. He has bonded with Sherlock, so I recommend that it is in his immediate best interests that Sherlock should continue to supervise him while we discuss next steps."

By the end of this unexpected speech, Lestrade's expression had begun to resemble something like Sherlock's; surprise and confusion, only without the panic.

The social worker said, "Yes, of course", as John had expected she would. So with a casual glance back at Sherlock, who had recovered some of his composure, but not much he noted, John turned to Lestrade in an expectant manner.

Quickly closing his mouth, which had fallen open during John's speech, Lestrade recovered himself enough to indicate courteously that they could sit in his vehicle to talk.

In the car the social worker outlined December’s care plan. "There are no spaces for the boy right now," she said, in answer to John's inquiry, "but I assure you he will be fine at our office. It will be 48 hours at most, by that time we will have found temporary placement for him with one of our emergency caregivers. If no family is located and when a space is available, he can then go into temporary shelter care. After that we will get him into the foster care system, but of course that takes time."

Even she sounded doubtful about all this and by the time she trailed off, Lestrade, the loving father of four children, was well-and-truly starting to look like Sherlock, the panic included. John didn't feel much better.

He heard himself ask, "How long does it take for a couple to become qualified to provide emergency care for a child-in-need?" He continued, "I'm a family physician and my partner is…." Ummm, best not to mention that, he thought quickly and started again, "The Holmes family is a well-known and respected one; my partner's brother is Sir Mycroft Holmes…" Any port in a storm, he thought, grateful for the first time ever for Mycroft's existence. Then the troublesome voice at the back of his brain made itself heard… _Uncle_ Mycroft? Is that really fair to the child?

He mentally shook himself and continued. "I'm sure that DI Lestrade will vouch for my partner's and my character." Here he looked hopefully at Lestrade. "Is there any possibility that we could look after the child in the short-term? Only temporarily, of course."

Lestrade's mouth fell open once more in shock. However, before he could recover himself to speak, the social worker answered John, "No, I'm afraid that's not possible.” She gestured and added vaguely, "There are rules. He will have to come with me now, but don't worry he will receive the best of care."

John sighed, he very much doubted this, but there was nothing more he could do for the moment.


	5. Chapter 5

As they stepped out of the vehicle, the rain began to pound down in earnest. Looking for Sherlock and December, John spotted them across the street apparently deep in conversation about something (the optimal placement of sewer drainage emergency discharge overflows to reduce the risk of urban flooding, Sherlock had informed him later). As Sherlock looked across at them and John read the expression on his face, he quailed inwardly. Dear God he thought watching Sherlock approach, this may not go well…

Sherlock walked toward them slowly. December couldn't be seen inside the coat, although he could be heard chattering happily, having had his meal and drink and also presumably feeling relatively dry and warm.

The same could not be said for Sherlock. Clearly he had moved on from his surprise and confusion. Dirty and soaked to the skin he was wearing his hardest expression.

Unfortunately, Doris, for that was the social worker's name, didn't notice it; being distracted by the rain and intent on getting back to her ever-growing caseload; from which even Christmas day offered no respite.

When he reached them, she said without actually looking at Sherlock, "Thank you sir, both of you, for assisting the child, not everyone is so responsible. Now if you'd like to just hand him to me, I'll take him into care."

Sherlock drew to a halt in front of them as she finished speaking. John glared at him.

_For God's sake Sherlock, if you want to keep the boy, don't insult a social worker! Or worse! If you do, you will never be able to see the child again!_

Sherlock may actually have heard John's silent order for once because after several seconds of what appeared to be deep thought, during which time he bent his free arm to study his cuticles in apparent absorption, he fixed a cold stare somewhere in the middle-distance over Doris's left shoulder and said in a deceptively expressionless tone, "No. I won’t."

Knowing it could have been far worse, John was cautiously optimistic.

Before any of them could say anything further, December's head emerged from Sherlock's coat, wondering, no doubt, why Sherlock's deep voice was no longer rumbling soothingly in his ear. He took one look at the social worker and Lestrade and, knowing with his child's intuition that something was going badly wrong, he screamed shrilly and dove back into the safe haven of Sherlock's coat. John and Sherlock both recoiled at the heart-wrenching wail.

Sherlock gripped December closer, covered him once more with his coat and said something firm that sounded like, "They aren’t taking you anywhere."

Then, mindful of John's silent warning, he said nothing else, instead settling for fixing Doris with a flinty stare. The scream quickly subsided under Sherlock's reassurance, but muffled sobbing could be heard; which for John and evidently for Sherlock as well, was just as heart-wrenching as the scream for they both remained quite pale.

For the first time that morning, Doris, by now paying full attention to the situation, looked uncertain. Lestrade, quick to understand children and increasingly, as time went by, to understand Sherlock, sized up the situation (there would be time for incredulity to set in later), and said to Doris, whom he had known for many years and respected, "Dory, I know you've already got a long list of children needing homes and only a few placements. The boys here want to take care of the child; obviously he's bonded with them as Dr. Watson says and after what the kid's been through…"

He continued, "He'll get all the special care he needs, I'm certain of that. I've known Mr. Holmes for close to ten years now and Dr. Watson for at least five. If you might consider bending the rules just a bit, we can take care of the paperwork… Remember the Claxton kids? Something like what you were able to do on that file, perhaps…?" he let his voice trail off.

Trying not to look menacing but failing, Sherlock said nothing. John sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward for Lestrade and held his breath.

Doris, who really was a kind woman, as it turned out, if always short of time, quickly summed up the situation and nodded in agreement. There was an audible sigh of relief from John and Lestrade. Sherlock's shoulders relaxed slightly and the muffled sobbing inside the coat quieted.

"Alright then," said Lestrade, with a smile at Doris, "Let's get this lot to the hospital to get checked out, shall we?"

In the rear seat of Lestrade's vehicle with December, tired once more, resting between him and John, Sherlock pulled out his mobile and began to text rapidly. Continuing to text with one hand, he reached into his pocket again, pulled out John's phone and handed it to him.

Tired and confused, John spluttered, "What the bloody hell, Sherlock!?"

"Language, John," reproved Sherlock without looking up, but his half-smile made another fleeting appearance.

Suddenly amused, but not wanting to give Sherlock any encouragement, John turned and grinned out the window.

He turned back at a sudden thought, "Mrs. Hudson…" he began.

"…loves children," Sherlock finished for him.

And that she does, smiled John. It is indeed a happy Christmas.

**Epilogue**

**December 15 (Last Day of Autumn School Term) Five Years Later**

The door of 221 B was flung wide, startling John so he almost banged his head on an open cupboard door. It was December returning from school, making his usual enthusiastic entrance to the flat; today clutching a handful of Christmas candies and a tin of homemade shortbread cookies given to him by Mrs. Hudson.

Either one or both of them would have walked him home from school except that Mrs. Hudson frequently insisted that she be the one to meet him "…because I hardly get to see the dear boy otherwise..."

This statement was glaringly false but Sherlock and John had both learned the futility of trying to dispute it.

"Dad! Guess what?"

"What?" asked John and Sherlock in unison. December took no notice of this confusion; it was part of the daily ritual. He continued with eager excitement, "I got a 'B+' on my science test!"

He was still struggling to catch up with his peers in school due to his difficult start in life. His teachers assured them that he would succeed; it would just take time.

Sherlock rose immediately from where he'd been looking into his microscope while John made tea and lifted the boy high into the air, candy and all; whirling in circles as he did so.

Pride glowing in his face he exclaimed, "December! That's brilliant!" Holding the boy close to his chest, he looked at John across December's sandy coloured head, neat with the exception of several unruly tufts, with an expression of such tenderness on his face that John, his throat suddenly too constricted to speak, could only smile and nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will go back into the vault on Jan 6, 2017 but will reemerge on the following Dec 20.  
> 


End file.
